


Why Him?

by Wyste



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Gen, Identity Porn, Platonic Soulmates, Secret Identity, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-03-21 22:03:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3705907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wyste/pseuds/Wyste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne aren't soulmates. Batman and Superman are. Too bad the universe introduced Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Français available: [Pourquoi Lui ?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5123405) by [Laienth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laienth/pseuds/Laienth)



Clark was distracted by a fire in the Warehouse district. No one inside, but if it spread to the surrounding buildings-  
  
Anyway, that's why he ran into a businessman in a suit worth more than Clark's monthly rent, spilling probably-expensive coffee all over both of them.  
  
"Oh, I'm so sorry, let me help you with that-" Clark said, fumbling for a handkerchief and pushing his glasses more firmly onto his nose with his other hand. This was going to stain, he just knew it-  
  
"It's quite alright, Mr. Kent. Didn't I read your article on the Luthor merger last month? Impressive work."  
  
Clark had gone into journalism because of those words, the stark outlines of the golden platonic bond written on his wrist. He just hadn't expected-  
  
"Bruce Wayne?" he managed, in a choked voice.  
  
Bruce 'almost as much money as Lex Luthor' Wayne grinned easily at him.  
  
"Looks like! We should get dinner sometime, off the record."  
  
"I don't report on Gotham," Clark managed.  
  
"Great! Then this will go swimmingly. Do you like swimming? I'm thinking Hawaii."  
  
Clark stared at him, vision flipping into the infrared and X-ray.  
  
Aside from telling him that Bruce Wayne had a recently broken rib, it wasn't helpful.  
  
"Dinner! Hawaii! We'll go surfing, do you surf? I can teach you. Well, pay someone to teach you. Now, I've got to run. I'll call you!"  
  
Bruce slid around him like a dancer, papers collected, stride purposeful.  
  
"You don't have my number!" Clark called after him.  
  
"I will in five minutes," Bruce called back cheerfully, and then he was around the corner and gone.  
  
Clark considered this very carefully, and then took out his cell phone and called his mother.  
  
"Ma?"  
  
"Clark! Shouldn't you be working? Are you sick?"  
  
"Ma, I-"  
  
"What is it? Is something wrong?"  
  
"I met him, ma."  
  
"Oh, Clark," she said softly. "Do you think he'll want to come for Thanksgiving?"  
  
Clark knew, in that vague way you know things about celebrities, a little about Bruce Wayne.  
  
"I don't think he has any family," he said. "So I think he should come, don't you?"  
  
"He's your soulmate, of course he should. I can't wait to meet him."  
  
"He seems... busy."  
  
Clark stared at the sidewalk where his soulmate had just been standing. It provided no answers.  
  
"Well, you're no layabout yourself," she said practically. "Now, get back to work and fly by this weekend. I'll make a pie."  
  
"Yes, ma."  
  
Clark did like celebratory pie. With a sigh, he turned and trudged home to his apartment to change, virtuously not cheating and using super-speed.


	2. Secrets and Revelations

Hawaii was nice. So was skiing in the Alps. And scuba diving in Australia. And sushi in Japan. Bruce was charming, suave, and took to hosting like it was his job.

Clark remembered to smile, and talk about his job, and tried to only break things when he meant to.

He invited Bruce to Thanksgiving. Bruce came, was slick and charming and talked about supermodels and complimented the farm tractor sincerely, and left before Thanksgiving dinner with barely an excuse. Just, “I need to go.”

He was invited to Christmas, but he didn’t come.

Bruce kept trying, and Clark kept trying too – Bruce sent Clark invitations to charity balls so that Clark could write about them, Clark kept a clipping file of interesting things Wayne Enterprises had done recently so that he could talk to Bruce about them – but Clark couldn’t help but feel… baffled.

They didn’t have anything in _common_. Bruce didn’t care about politics. Bruce cared about his next vacation. Clark felt about as comfortable in high society as if he was wandering around with a cow following him, and that was _without_ the tiny forks.

All in all, it was a relief when Superman met Batman and started spending a good portion of every month arguing with the man about the best way to handle the world’s problems. The founding of the Justice League followed logically. Superman stayed out of Gotham, even if Clark Kent visited most weekends for some stupid social event Bruce had come up with.

It was a simple moment, a couple years after the Justice League had been founded, that brought it all out into the open. Clark was at yet another something-opening, circulating with Bruce and letting Bruce set him up with beautiful women, in true platonic soulmate fashion, and the twins talking to them had happened onto the topic of the Justice League.

Clark gulped his champagne, and wished it had any effect on him.

“I think Batman shouldn’t be allowed in,” said Socialite #1, the one in the red dress. “He’s not like the others. He’s so – dark. Not heroic at all.”

“He has saved the world a few times?” Clark offered.

“I didn’t know you had such fond feelings for Batman,” Bruce laughed. “No one in Gotham would agree with you.”

“Well, I-“ Clark started.

“It’s not like Superman. There’s a man who’s honest. No secret identity there,” said Socialite #2.

Clark adjusted his glasses, glanced at Bruce uneasily, and said, “Well, maybe it’s a very secret identity?”

“He doesn’t even wear a mask,” laughed Socialite #1.

Clark fiddled with his champagne, and missed Bruce’s assessing stare entirely.

“Ladies, if you’ll excuse us, I see the police commissioner and I simply must say hello,” Bruce said smoothly, disengaging them from the pair and leading Clark across the room.

“So, any theories on Batman’s secret identity?” Bruce asked. “Think it’s Gordon?”

“The _Daily Planet_ ’s policy is that a superhero’s identity is not our business,” Clark said sternly. “We’re not the _Enquirer_.”

“Surely you must be curious.”

“If Batman wanted to tell me – us, the world – who he was, I’m sure he could manage it.” Clark couldn’t help but ask, “Do you have a theory?”

“Oh, yes,” Bruce said. “But since you’re so respectful of his privacy, it would be simply terrible of me to tell you.”

Clark put his empty champagne glass on a passing waiter’s tray and prayed for patience.

Bruce abandoned him to chat with Commissioner Gordon about the upcoming Policeman’s Ball, disappearing who-knew-where. Clark didn’t listen for him. Privacy. It was important to give people privacy, especially your platonic who was probably off to meet up with Socialite #2 for coat closet sex. Clark tried his very best not to overhear anyone having sex, let alone Bruce.

A faint buzz from his League communicator, which Clark had tuned out of the human hearing range.

“Superman, come in.”

Clark excused himself from his conversation and wandered over to a balcony, out of sight of the guests.

“I read you, Batman. What is it?”

“I need you in Gotham. How soon can you get here?”

Uh. (Superman did not say ‘uh.’) “Soon,” he settled on. “Where?”

“The roof of the Gotham Museum.”

Clark was _in_ the Gotham Museum.

“I’ll see you shortly,” Clark settled on, and ducked behind a potted plant to change.

When he floated down to a landing on the museum roof, the only person up there was an exceedingly drunk-smelling Bruce Wayne.

“Mr. Wayne,” Superman said stiffly. “It might not be safe for you to be up here.”

“Speak of the devil!” Wayne saluted him with his wine glass. “Here, you can settle a bet for me. Do you have a secret identity, Mr. Superman?”

Clark suppressed the urge to adjust his glasses.

“That’s a very personal question, Mr. Wayne. I must insist you clear the roof.”

He trusted the Batman, but not with his soulmate. They’d already had the incredibly awkward kryptonite conversation. He didn’t need to give Batman more leverage.

“I was just testing a theory,” Bruce said in Batman’s tones, losing the drunken slouch and slur as if it had never been. “They’ll be looking for us inside, Clark.”

Clark felt his eyes widen, and then he found himself laughing.

“Well, that makes a lot more sense,” he managed, to Bruce’s nonplussed look.

That got a small, crooked smile, a new sort of smile compared to Bruce’s usual lazy grace.

“It does, doesn’t it. I’ll meet you downstairs, I still want to tip the police commissioner off to gang activity down by the docks.”  


End file.
